


Under a Pitch Black Sky

by vampireisthenewblack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Bonding, Derek Never Left, First Time, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mating, Minor Injuries, Post-Season/Series 03A AU, Ritual Sex, Verbal Consent, because that should so be a tag, beta form xeno, but still feels a wee bit dub-con, deaton made them do it, kind of, sex pollen in the form of sexy werewolf catnip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/pseuds/vampireisthenewblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is standing naked in the middle of the woods on a new moon because the pack needs to forge a union between werewolf and human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under a Pitch Black Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fardareismai2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fardareismai2/gifts).



> I wrote this in 2 hours last night after [fardareismai2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fardareismai2) prompted _'Stiles is going for anonymous, has no idea it's D until after.'_ on twitter. Woke up this morning with only a vague recollection of what I'd written. Sorry, love, it doesn't quite fit the spirit of the prompt, but I suck at sticking to prompts, so I'm just gonna cross my fingers and hope you like it. Thanks [venis_envy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy) for the read-thru and de-kiwi :D [Incidentally, I've met both of these girls in person. We had breakfast at Tart, hung out at the Hyperion Hotel, and stalked Steven Tyler in a sex shop. Good times.]
> 
> The title is lame, I know, but the alternative was New Moon, and I so wasn't going there.

Who could have known that virginity would turn out to be the most powerful thing they had at their disposal?

Not Stiles, though he could have guessed that he would be the only one of their group in possession of that particular quality.

The pack needs a virgin to forge a union between werewolf and human, something stronger than the loyalty of simple friendship or family.

Old werewolf lore, Deaton said, and it was the first time Stiles ever saw him with a dusty old book, though the thing looked right at home in his hands. Few emissaries have this knowledge, Deaton said, and Stiles didn't want to believe him, but Deaton's tendency is to withhold rather than lie outright, and Scott was lapping it up.

Scott is desperate for a way to stop Peter.

After tricking Derek out of his Alpha status, then giving the bite to a handful of weak-minded idiots who have probably seen the inside of the Sheriff’s station a few too many times, Peter had a pack that could rival their own, albeit lacking the support of the humans that almost—but not quite—qualified as pack under Scott as Alpha.

That’s why Stiles is standing naked in the middle of the woods, under a pitch black sky on the new moon. He’s shivering, because it’s just a little too close to Christmas for it to be comfortable, but he’ll be running soon.

Whoever he gets tonight, he’ll be stuck with. It’s probably going to be Scott, he’s faster, stronger than any of the others, even Derek, even the twins. Stiles has been seesawing between hope that it is, and hope that it isn’t. At least he knows what he’d be getting with Scott. They’ve been friends forever, this wouldn’t change that.

Except for the sex part.

It might be Cora. He’ll know right away if it’s Cora. If he’s honest, Stiles doesn’t have any real preference for male or female, and when he told Deaton that, the vet seemed to brighten, like it was a good thing.

Stiles figures it’s because odds are, one of the guys is going to catch him first.

If it was down to them, Stiles thinks he’d be more worried, but their instincts will kick in. Apparently. Stiles read the dusty old book, something about preferences aside, their instincts would drive them to find him and mate with him, sealing a bond between humans and wolves, bringing him—and those closest to him—into the pack.

He’s a fucking virgin sacrifice, offered up by his village to appease the monsters, only the stories about monsters eating the virgins left for them aren't true.

Stiles rubs at his arms to warm his skin, but there’s so much of it on display that it’s futile. As apprehensive as he is, he still kind of wishes they’d hurry the hell up.

He hopes it’s not Aiden. He’s straighter than Scott, for a start, and that’s saying something, so that would inevitably get awkward. Besides, Stiles is still firmly of the belief that Aiden is a dick, and it’s not just because of Lydia.

Stiles could do worse than Isaac, though he’d feel bad for Allison.

Ethan, god, please, no. Stiles ships Ethan and Danny hard, he would probably cry if he was the one to bust up that beautiful thing.

Scott. Yes. No. Yes, no, yes, no. Fuck.

Cora would make the most sense. At least one day they could have cute little werewolf babies and perhaps she might not roll her eyes every time she looks at him.

Derek is the one Stiles has tried not to think about. Whether he’s too straight or not is debatable, because despite Stiles only having heard about him hooking up with women, there’s something about the careful grooming and obvious manscaping that pings Stiles’ fluid sexuality radar.

That might be wishful thinking, because Stiles is harboring a crush to rival the one he’s had on Lydia for, like, ever.

But Lydia kissed Stiles, once. That kind of suggested that despite her careful ‘just friends’ attitude since, he at least had the tiniest sliver of a chance.

Derek, pfft. Never in a million years. Sure, he’s not threatening to tear his head off any longer, but Stiles still doesn’t get more than a cursory glance these days.

Less, since Deaton pulled out his goddamn book and told them all that this was the only way to fight Peter.

Stiles thinks he hears something. It’s just a distant rustle, far enough away that it could be the wind, except there’s no wind tonight.

They’re all at the old Hale house, trapped in a circle of Mountain Ash. They’re pack, and it’s the only reason they won’t tear each other apart when the wind carries his scent to them.

Yeah. That was awkward, when in the fading light before the sun slipped below the horizon, Deaton painted his _naked_ body with a strong smelling paste of different herbs that was apparently like sexy catnip to werewolves.

The sound gets louder, becomes a distant thundering rumble that Stiles can feel under his feet. It’s his cue to start running.

He’ll never be able to outrun any of them, but apparently it’s the thing to do. In the darkness he won’t know who is who.

He’s got to be at least a little glad that none of them have the ability to change into a proper wolf, though he’s a bit concerned about the twins. As he tears off into the trees, the ground still vibrating beneath his bare feet, he wonders if when they shift into uberwolf, they get uberdick thrown in on the deal.

Because that shit is just wrong and if it happens, he’s so pulling the plug.

Or he would, if he had that option. Unfortunately, there's nowhere to stash wolfsbane or Mountain Ash when he's naked. He had his last chance before Deaton came at him with a brush dipped in werewolf catnip.

Stiles, again, said, “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Because he’s self-sacrificing like that.

The werewolves all had to do the verbal consent thing, too. Stiles doesn’t remember much past Derek carefully avoiding his eyes when he nodded, looking instead at the others as they all said yes, one by one.

Stiles thinks Derek only did it because he didn’t want to be the only one to refuse.

A branch whips past Stiles’ arm, leaving behind a stinging line, and the air as it rushes past feels cool. “Great,” he puffs as he keeps running, as the crashing behind him gets closer, louder. “Let’s add some blood to the mix.”

As if those words trigger the werewolves behind him, the steady rush of bodies crashing through trees halts and is replaced by snarling, snapping, the thud of someone hitting the ground, the sound of branches breaking, and then a whine, as someone surrenders and backs away.

Stiles realizes he’s stopped. He can’t see anything, can only feel his way as he turns back, arms outstretched again so he doesn’t brain himself on a tree and sleep through the whole thing.

Actually...

There’s a howl of victory behind him, and the wolf starts to run again.

But that’s it. There’s just the one now where there were two before.

Stiles’ mind is racing, even as his thighs burn with the effort to keep in front for as long as possible. He keeps thinking about the book, though, keeps thinking about the part that said that a wolf would run just a little bit faster, fight just a little more aggressively, if the quarry was someone they wanted.

Stiles trips over a root in the blackness, falls forward, hits his knee with enough force that pain flares through him and he can feel the skin grazing. In the next moment, four limbs hit the ground around him.

He thought he’d be able to smell the difference, but all he can smell is the stuff Deaton painted onto him, and the dirt his fingers are pressing into.

He can feel hard muscle pressing against his back, though, a hard cock against the back of his leg, tip sliding up the inside of his thigh, prodding at the clenched cheeks of his ass.

“Scott?” he squeaks, even though he knows whoever it is is too far gone to respond. “God, buddy, if it’s you, I’m so sorry, but I fucking hope it’s not.” It’s only now that he’s sure, that he really hopes it’s not Scott snuffling at the back of his neck.

It’s not Cora, obviously. He’s fairly certain it’s not Isaac, because werewolf or not, Isaac’s leaner and so much taller than the others.

So, great for Allison. And Stiles doesn’t have cute werewolf babies in his future. Other than that, though, Stiles has no fucking idea whose dick is sliding between his already slick cheeks—he did that himself, thank you very much, no way he was letting Deaton get _that_ familiar—only that it’s one of the other four.

No uberwolf with ubercock, though, so he’s counting his blessings in that regard.

“Okay,” he says. “Straight into it then,” and spreads his legs. He’d like to get up on his hands and knees to give himself some leverage, some ridiculous sense of control, but the werewolf is heavy on his back, holding him down with it’s full weight, hips pressing Stiles into the uncomfortable root he tripped over.

The head of the werewolf’s cock pushes against his hole, and with a series of short, sharp jerks, shoves inside.

Stiles was thorough in the privacy of his own bathroom before coming out tonight. He stretched himself with his own fingers, fucked himself open with his brand new dildo bought specially over the internet with Deaton’s credit card—because even though his dad knows about this, Stiles wasn’t going to rub it in his face by having _that_ appear on his statement.

Still, nothing prepared him for being filled with hot, pulsing, living flesh, with a werewolf driven by instinct alone behind it. There are sharp teeth against the back of his neck, gripping tight enough to hold him, yet gentle enough not to break skin. Sweat slicks between them, strong hands wrap around Stiles’ biceps, claws pricking at his skin.

It’s so dark he can’t see a thing, and he’s being fucked by something that, right now, is more animal than human.

His knee hurts, feels gritty where he grazed it like there's dirt caked in the blood. He’s full, stretched open on a big cock, he’s got no idea who’s fucking him, and despite all his fantasies of anonymous sex, this kind of thing never even factored.

But he’s hard. His cock is leaking into the dirt, and the friction as the werewolf thrusts into him is almost too much. He’s gotta be filthy now, dirt turning to mud on his sweaty skin. He pushes back, wanting up and out of it, lifting his hips.

Still, he’s surprised when the werewolf moves his hands to Stiles’ hips, claws scratching, and pulls him up to his knees. Stiles winces as he drops his weight on the grazed one, then the werewolf wraps his arm around Stiles’ thigh, pulls it up off the ground so his leg is extended behind, holds him, supports his weight, pulls Stiles onto his cock as he thrusts forward.

Stiles grunts as a wave of lust rushes through him. This is more than just being hard because being fucked feels nice, this is...this is concern, consciousness, and also, holy crap, creative positions. “Who are you?” he gasps, fingertips digging into the dirt for leverage. “Please, fuck, I’ve gotta know.”

The werewolf just lets out a low grunt and thrusts into him harder, faster than before.

Stiles whines, wishes he could risk pulling a hand up to jerk himself off, because his balls are tight and aching and he wants to come, but the moment he tries, he tilts.

Another bit of proof that it’s not all instinct, because the werewolf notices, and the arm that’s wrapped around his thigh moves just enough to wrap long fingers around Stiles’ dick, still clawed, and starts to stroke.

“Well,” Stiles whimpers. “That’s hot. And scary.”

But the werewolf is careful, stroking in time with his thrusts, and before long Stiles is coming, moaning as he spills helplessly onto the ground beneath him.

As he’s coming down, he registers the increased stretch inside, notices how the werewolf’s thrusts become erratic, then when the knot is fully swollen, short and shallow. It tugs at Stiles’ rim with each movement.

He knew about this, he expected it and he’s prepared for it. He hangs his head and breathes until he’s adjusted, until the werewolf finally stills, then lowers them both to the forest floor, pulling Stiles into his chest, sweaty and slick, arms wrapped around Stiles’ middle, snuffling, sniffing at the back of his neck again, then lips moving down over his shoulder in a long slide of a kiss.

There’s silence except for the sound of insects and their breathing. Stiles wonders when the werewolf will come back properly, regain control over those instincts. He waits, feeling the weight of the knot inside him, the pulse as it slowly fills him with what Deaton told him would be a whole lot of come.

Right now, Stiles feels kind of honored, because as rare as werewolves are, he’s one of very few humans who will ever feel this, the knot, the thing that only happens when werewolves are mated for life.

The werewolf inside him is his for life. They belong to each other now, and he knows it’s stronger for werewolves, he’ll never be able to comprehend the enormity of what it means, but he feels a kind of peace in knowing it.

“Who are you?” he breathes, and he doesn’t know if the werewolf will answer, because the knot is still pulsing, and Stiles feels tight with how full he is, and whether or not the mating instinct fades with the beginning, or the end of orgasm.

The arms around his chest grow tighter, just for a moment, and the werewolf drops his forehead onto Stiles’ shoulder, and his breath seems to shudder, and whether that’s emotion or what, Stiles doesn’t know.

“Scott?” Stiles tries to keep his voice even, but there’s a shake in it as his stomach clenches and he begs silently for it not to be his best friend. “Is it you, buddy?” Stiles hopes so badly that it isn’t, but he’s not going to let Scott know that, because there’s no coming back from this.

The breath warming his back shudders again. “I’m sorry,” the werewolf says.

Stiles freezes. He doesn’t believe his ears at first, and replays it in his head until he’s sure his mind is playing tricks. He doesn't get this lucky. It can’t be. “Derek?” he asks, and he hears the disbelief in his own voice. “Oh my god. Derek?”

The werewolf takes a few deep, shaky breathes, warmth washing over Stiles’ skin. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. I know you wanted Scott.”

Stiles shakes his head to clear it. “Are you fucking kidding me? Derek? Holy crap.” He gasps for air as tension coils inside him, warmth that tightens in his gut and spreads outward, tingling, washing through him like fire. “Derek, fuck. Derek.” He squirms, pushing back on the knot in his ass as his cock gets hard again. “I never— God.” If he writhes in just the right way, the knot presses hard against his prostate and his whole body sings with pleasure. “Not Scott. No, no, no, you’re insane, oh my god, it’s you.” He wraps his hand around his dick, starts to stroke as an urge comes over him, some kind of instinct driving him to come again already, to lock his body onto the knot even more. “Never wanted Scott...my best friend and that would just be weird, fuck, Derek, move, I can’t—”

Derek lets out a surprised sounding huff of laughter, splays his hand out on Stiles’ chest and rocks his hips forward, driving the knot deeper. “You’re not disappointed?”

Stiles can only moan as his brain short circuits. He shivers as his muscles tense, and he reaches back, grabs hold of the back of Derek’s neck, wriggles. “I wanted you,” he says, and then comes, hard, violently, feeling the shape of the knot inside him as he clamps down in his orgasm. He hears his own groan of pleasure as if it’s coming from very far away.

His mind swims slowly back, even as his body is still twitching with aftershocks. “I wanted you,” he repeats, and a smile slowly spreads across his face.

The exhale that washes warmth over his back is clearly relief, and the lips on his shoulder, and then the base of his jaw, right under his ear are definitely not disappointment. Stiles turns his head, and he still can’t see fuck all, but it’s definitely Derek's beard roughing his cheek, then there are lips on his mouth, and they’re kissing, and it should probably feel less momentous considering Derek just fucked him and his special issue werewolf dick is knotted inside Stiles’ ass.

It doesn’t.

They kiss until Stiles’ neck aches and the knot goes down, Derek’s dick slipping out of him amid a wash of liquid warmth. Stiles grimaces, lets out a soft grunt, but then Derek pulls him over, wraps his arms around him, a hand sliding down his spine, fingers slipping between his cheeks, pressing gently into his loose, wet hole, just touching, stroking, and somehow easing the ache.

“I wanted you,” Derek says. “I wanted the others to say no, I thought Scott would say no, but he didn’t. I think he felt like he had to, like he was watching out for you, didn’t want you to get picked last. I knew I’d get to you first, I knew I’d be able to warn the others away. I didn’t need the ritual, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and groans. “You fucking idiot. You mean I let Deaton see me naked for no reason? Dude.”

“I thought you didn’t want me. You should have spoken up.”

Stiles bashes his head against Derek’s shoulder a couple of times. “Both idiots, we deserve each other, can we go home and take a shower now? Because eww. I’m covered in dirt and I’m pretty sure I’m going to need antibiotics for my knee.”

Derek shifts, then there’s a hand pulling Stiles up. He can see nothing, but this time Derek guides him over fallen branches and around the trees.

“You’re coming to my place?” Derek asks, tentative, like he’s not sure.

Stiles shrugs. “We’re pretty much married now, by werewolf standards, right?”

Derek lets out a nervous laugh but doesn't answer.

“Of course I’m coming to your place. My bag’s in the Jeep. I figured I wouldn’t be going to my place, I just didn’t know who I’d be going home with.” He squeezes Derek’s hand a little tighter.

Derek squeezes back, and leads him the rest of the way out of the woods.

**Author's Note:**

> venis_envy pointed out that this would have been awesome as a longer fic with classic Derek Manpain, and I thought that Peter and his pack of delinquents or whatever would have made for an intriguing arc, but I've got all the things going on right now so I wrapped it up nicely in a pink bow, but if anyone feels the need to rewind a couple paragraphs and do that themselves, they're so very welcome.
> 
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> 
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